


Shut Up And Date Me

by a_different_equation



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awesome Molly Hooper, Awesome Mrs. Hudson, Blind Date, Enemies to Lovers, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, Idiots in Love, Isolation, M/M, Masturbation, Pianist Sherlock Holmes, Romantic Comedy, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Slow Burn, Widower John Watson, the climax of the popping buttons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:33:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23424808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_different_equation/pseuds/a_different_equation
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a pianist; John Watson simply wants to be left alone. Both are new tenants in 221 Baker Street – and the wall between their rooms is so thin that everything can be heard.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Stella Hopkins/Molly Hooper
Comments: 63
Kudos: 61
Collections: Isolated Johnlock Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on a French movie called "Un peu, beaucoup, aveuglément" (English Title: "Blind Date", 2015). You don't have to know the movie to understand and hopefully enjoy the fic. Obviously, I took some liberties (and hell, did this movie screamed fix-me AND Johnlock treatment.) 
> 
> The premise is pretty straightforward: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson fall in love via fighting through a thin wall. 
> 
> Beta read by wildishmazz & elldotsee. Thank you so very much!
> 
> Enjoy, and #stay safe!
> 
> Ade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes, an acclaimed pianist, moves into 221b Baker Street on a Friday. Mrs Hudson, his landlady, mentions thin walls and a third apartment, but he deletes this information immediately.
> 
> Meanwhile, in 221c, a concerned Greg Lestrade visits his best friend. (“Have you meet anyone? Women, men, a cat?” - "A woman called me on Thursday. She dialled the wrong number.”)
> 
> A normal day until a painting with a ship starts moving and the skull starts glowing during a thunderstorm...

Sherlock, an acclaimed pianist, moves into 221b Baker Street on a Friday.

It’s Friday the 13th, but Sherlock Holmes isn’t superstitious. In fact, he might call thirteen his lucky number from now on because he is finally out of reach of his overbearing brother, a ruthless lawyer. The new flat might be in Westminster and therefore not far away from Mycroft’s office, but as his brother detests legwork, Sherlock hopes that he’s safe.

His new landlady Mrs Hudson opens the door and ushers him and the movers inside. She’s an elderly woman, wearing an apron as if she’s just come from the kitchen. Sherlock is pretty confident that it’s a front: she hasn’t been checking the oven, she’s had her eyes on the street. After all: they didn’t even need to ring the bell.

“Welcome, Mr Holmes, come in, come in…”

“Sherlock, please.” And his smile isn’t forced for once.

His landlady is charming, always looking out for him. When the movers – paid by Mycroft, but that’s a minor detail – try to charge him extra for bringing his piano up the stairs, she irons it out for him: “It’s in the contract, you can read, can’t you?” Martha Hudson is polite upfront, but she is stern. Oh, how quick the movers leave 221b!

On her way out, Mrs Hudson mentions something about a third flat and about a thin wall, but Sherlock deletes it immediately. Who cares about 221c and if someone lives there or not? He closes the door with a little bit more force than necessary behind them all.

Silence is bliss, QED.

* * *

  
  
  


Three hours later, 221b Baker Street looks like a bombsite, but Sherlock Holmes feels like a phoenix raising from the ashes. For a second, he toys with the idea of properly christening the flat, but he’s no idiot: he knows that his piano needs time to acclimatize.

His piano is from John Broadwood & Sons, London and has been in the Holmes family for generations. 

Sherlock inherited the piano from his uncle Rudy, who had inherited it from his mother, a French woman called Violet Vernet Sherlock has never had the pleasure of meeting, but has heard great things about. Apparently, both relatives loved to scandalize the family, and sometimes Mycroft insinuates that Sherlock inherited not only the instrument from them.

So maybe it shouldn't be surprising that the same thrill remains, as if the music is whispering:  _ Can you feel the blood pumping through your veins? Feels good, doesn't it? _ Oh, yes, when Sherlock Holmes plays his beloved instrument is as if it’s just the two of them against the rest of the world.

A recording of one of his acclaimed performances, however, will not go amiss. Before he moved in, he checked the acoustics; now he turns the stereo up, full volume, and feels so alive.

* * *

It’s getting late.

A thunderstorm announces a change of weather. There was probably some announcement on the weather forecast but Sherlock always tunes out the radio whenever the news airs. His world is classical music, as is right and proper for a pianist; who cares about anything else?

Of course, Sherlock could have switched to streaming permanently, but he relishes correcting the journalists in their musical judgement too much. Of course they can’t hear him – Sherlock is no idiot – but he feels better afterwards, and in a way, it’s a conversation, isn’t it? And a delightful one, in which no one talks back and he’s the real expert. Mycroft has never been a fan, but that was to be expected.

Sherlock shakes off the memories and rushes in the living room to close the windows. Surely, it’s the approaching thunder, or something. Weather lightning or some other nonsense that he has been taught in school but had deleted immediately as his mind could not be cluttered.

Then, he hears the noise. It rattles him. Yet, he tries to calm himself.

His eyes flicker over the room.

Is the painting over the couch moving? It’s a rather lovely one, an old ship, and even it doesn’t fit the slightly Victorian touch of 221b, Sherlock had been drawn by it like a moth to a flame. When he had first spotted it, he had been ready to blurt out that he had wanted to be a pirate before becoming a pianist as a young boy to Mrs Hudson.

For a second Sherlock isn’t convinced if the skull above the fireplace isn’t glowing, too.

* * *

  
  
  


Sherlock Holmes is a rational man, all grown-up. And yet, he puts on his Belstaff and his blue scarf hurriedly, flags down a cab and rushes back to his big brother’s house in Pall Mall.

“That didn’t take long, brother dear…”

His brother greets him, all-smiling bastard, pretentious know-it-all. It's half past nine, and Mycroft Holmes still wearing his suit. Lawyers in general, but in particular Mycroft, seem to be married to their work. His umbrella is his only constant companion.

“I’ve just locked myself out…”

It’s a lie, and Mycroft sees through it. He, as well as being the older brother, is also the smart one. Mycroft just loves to rub it in, always has. When they were young, he had a sing-song litany intoning  _ Be reasonable, Sherlock _ or  _ Grow up, Sherlock _ or  _ You know how it upsets Mummy _ .

Tonight is no different: “If you say so, Sherlock… regardless, your room is ready. It’s the same as you left it… yesterday.”

“It’s just for one night, Mycroft. I’ll sleep on the sofa. You won’t even realize that I’m here.”

It might be a setback, to that Sherlock can agree, but small steps, right? He has his own place now, and tomorrow is a new day, and he made it six hours on his own. That has to count for something. He curls himself in a foetal position.

He hasn’t failed, not yet.

  
  


* * *

Approximately twenty minutes away by foot, a concerned friend visits his best mate.

The best mate’s name is John Watson – Dr John H. Watson, actually – but it’s been seven years and for him it feels like another lifetime. This John has lived in 221c since he returned to London, and he has no intention of moving ever again.

Mostly, he doesn’t like to even leave his flat. Which is why his friend, Greg Lestrade – Gregory Lestrade, a police officer at the New Scotland Yard – has to visit him in Baker Street, and preferably for John, shop for him too. Not all shops deliver yet. It’s almost unheard of in this day and age, but John has checked and pleaded and almost bullied one shop owner to no avail, they were stubborn – God knows why.

John doesn’t have anger issues – no matter what his therapist, a lovely woman called Ella, claimed – he is simply not good with people, full stop.

Greg, he can tolerate in small doses. At least, when he isn’t his overbearing cheering self, all grinning and so annoying.

“Have you meet anyone? Women, men, a cat?”

“Funny, Greg…”

Good old Greg had brought the groceries and Indian takeaway, the beer had been chilled, and there are some chocolate cookies hidden in the bag.

And yet? Is it really worth it when his friend of God-knows-how-long doesn’t get the message? John had considered getting a tattoo when he had been truly pissed (drunk and angry, bad combination, John can see it now) that stated the obvious:  _ Shut up, leave me alone _ , if necessary, even some pseudo poetic shit like  _ alone is what I have _ .

“So, have you or have you not?”

“A woman called me on Thursday.”

“That’s promising!”

“She dialled the wrong number.”

  
tbc  
  



	2. Meeting the neighbours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There's no such things as ghosts," or so Sherlock tells Mrs Hudson after last nights events. However, John probably would disagree.

Sherlock returns to 221b the next day. Mrs Hudson welcomes him as if he’s a lost son. It’s a bit too much, and Sherlock wants to bristle but he is oddly touched somehow.

She smells of freshly baked cake, and he is easily convinced to take a piece with him upstairs.

“But only this once, mind you. I’m your landlady, not your housekeeper, young man.”

Her eyes crinkle, and she reminds Sherlock so much of his own mother of better days that he wants to scoff, but instead offers to make tea for them both.

Minutes later it dawns on him that it’s going to be a total disaster as he has no idea how to even put on the kettle. It should be easy, elementary even! Sherlock feels the lump in his throat forming - has Mycroft been right all along?

A warm hand covers his cold one. “Let me make the tea.”

A beat of silence as if Mrs Hudson is giving him a chance to recoil. Since when are people so considerate towards him? They normally call him names and demand that he grow up, and then he runs away like a wounded animal. Though obviously, he would not be hurt because he’s a cold fish (“a high-functioning sociopath – do your research!”), and a drama queen. 

Oh, she’s still talking.

“You sit down. Read the newspaper. There’s a nice review of Anderson’s concert last weekend. Apparently, a toddler’s recital is superior to his improvisation. I bought the paper when I read the headline, I thought you might appreciate it. Or you can pick up your violin, if you like.”

Sherlock is transformed into a puppet and Mrs Hudson is the puppeteer, that’s the only logical explanation, as he feels the soft cushion in his back. And his chair hadn’t even had a cushion when moving in… only yesterday!

There’s clatter in the background, Sherlock could deduce its origins but he’s suddenly tired, deep in his bones.

Nothing makes sense anymore.

Mrs Hudson is humming out of tune, and Sherlock grins unintentionally as he senses correctly that she’s doing on purpose.

The kettle is whistling from afar. The outside noise is zoning out. Gradually, Sherlock’s mind clears.

The sunbeams are dancing on the carpet. He follows the pattern of the Victorian wallpaper with his eyes, it’s never ending, and somehow that’s soothing.

Sherlock contemplates if he should pin some of his original music on the wall.

Over the last couple of months he had picked up composing once more. It’s something he had abandoned after a snide remark by a fellow student: “Oh, Sherly, you’re such a dreamer. Why write your own songs? Ought you not perfect your classical training first? You’ve over-played Chopin again, and as he’s pure drama that’s an accomplishment.” Maybe Sherlock should put on Sebastian Wilkes’ post-it instead:  _ No more sodding Chopin, Sherlock. _

“Here you are.”

Sherlock almost drops the offered tea cup to the floor.

Foolish, stupid.

Mrs Hudson smiles. She catches the cup, her reactions exceptional for her age. Appearances can be deceiving, QED.

Soon, they indulge in Earl Grey tea with a splash of milk and delicious cake in silence.

No chiding from her because of his fondness for sweets. She doesn’t count the sugar cubes in his cup. Another slice of cake appears on his plate without his complaining or even asking.

He blurts it out, mumbling about the strange noises coming from 221a, making no sense.

Sherlock insists that a ghost is a figure from a child’s tale, and Sherlock is a scientist. 

“There is no such thing as a ghost, Mrs Hudson!”

His voice is not wavering or raising up, he tries to tell himself.

“There’s more between…”

“Mrs Hudson,” he interrupts her, “don’t quote Shakespeare at me. This isn’t the time for fiction, it’s about science. There ought to be a difference between poetry and truth.”

“If you say so…” She winks at him. It’s insufferable. “Baker Street has a history; however, we have all sorts around here. In 221c, for example,…”

Before she can ramble further, Sherlock compliments her out of 221b.

“Lovely tale, Mrs Hudson. Thank you for the tea. Haven’t you got a date with Mr Doyle? He’s already married, but no one knows about it, except myself. His wife lives in Hampstead. Never marry straight after school, it will never last. Of course, she was pregnant and it was the 1960s.”

He is baffled and slightly put off when she shuts his door with a slam.

* * *

  
  


John Watson hears the bang; it wakes him.

In a second he’s back into his personal warzone.

John tries to remember Ella’s advice but all is void.

The scream, the crash, the noise, the smell, oh God, the smell of blood, too much blood, everything is red, it’s too much, everything is too much.

“I’m sorry, John.” Mike Stamford’s voice forever in loop. Never returned his calls again. They might have been to medical school together, but if two sodding doctors cannot save Mary what is there to talk? All is said, all is done, everything is over. “I’m sorry, John.”

John isn’t sorry when he smashes the glass from his bedside table on the floor now.

There’s a tremor in his hand. It’s his dominant hand, what an irony! “You will never perform surgery again”, his therapist had said to him, as if he would ever practice medicine again. “I’m sorry, John.”

The alcohol sinks into the carpet. John should mop it up before it stains forever. It’s cheap booze, bought from the off-license yesterday. They know his face by now, not dissimilar to his patients in his office years ago. Except they don’t know that the poor sod is an ex-army doctor, trained in trauma surgery, who saved strangers in Afghanistan but failed to save his own wife in sodding London.

It wasn’t a bullet that brought Dr. John H. Watson down, but a car. A car, and John Watson hasn’t even got a driving license – just like the young chap that killed his wife, a nurse, in a hit-and-run. The police caught him years later, a tip from an unofficial source – John forgot the details – and everyone hoped that the clouds would be lifted at last. Even his alcoholic sister had hoped for a miracle, but John was a non-believer since Mary died, after his one prayer, “Dear God, let her live” was unheard.

John isn’t vicious, but he has bad days.

His temper is getting worse with every passing day, and oh, how he hates it, and yet, he cannot change. Forever in limbo, just like Mary would have been if it hadn’t been his duty to put her to rest. Was it his last Duty as a husband or a doctor?

The lines had started to blur back then, as the bottle became his new life companion. Mary would have hated it, and the John Watson of old too, but Dr John Watson is dead.

Dr John Watson would never do what he does next: in a trance like state he stumbles to the wall.

There is a noise next door, it has to be stopped.

* * *

  
  


Alone again after Mrs Hudson leaves 221b, Sherlock occupies himself with updating the index on his personal blog.

He started _The Science of Music_ after Sebastian Wilkes’ remark; however, those events are unrelated. Sherlock just happened to have an interest in cataloguing every pianist that has ever tried their hands – quite literal – at Chopin. If someone would care to look up The Science of Music on the internet, they would find an invaluable source, and all for free!

For instance, Sherlock has dedicated a complete section to the ridiculous notion of dyeing one’s hair to improve one’s skills. If it had not been hit a bit too close to home, Sherlock would have written a harsh “you don’t have to be gay to play Chopin”-statement too.

Sherlock didn’t find Chopin when questioning his sexuality, that’s press talk. And if someone would bother to interview him again, he would correct that assumption ASAP.

Alas, even his number one fan - Jim Moriarty - had loved to shag him but hadn't been overly excited about his character. There had been a meet and greet when Sherlock had been on the threshold between gifted child and breakthrough star – Mycroft’s meddling – and it had been blown out of proportion.

It was the only reason why Sherlock moved into his brother’s house; at least, if you asked him.

All of a sudden, there’s a shout - no, more of a scream - from the wall. It might be more of a torrent of swear words. If Sherlock had not been so stunned, he would be impressed.

Sherlock's so not quoting Shakespeare, when he asks: “Who’s there?”

  
  
tbc


	3. A Strange Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes and John Watson meet at last. At least, when you call yelling at each other through the thin wall between 221b and 221c "meet". Enter the three stages to get rid of your your neighbour... starting: NOW.

The voice of the new neighbour sounds like porn in his ears, but John’s sex life died with Mary. Therefore, John barks: “Look, we have a bad soundproofing problem. And forget the management. It’s not the same building. Nor the same district.”

Actually, John has been suspicious about Mrs Hudson’s statement since he moved in, however, back then he had been too deep in mourning and nowadays, he simply doesn’t bother to fact-check.

It’s the easiest way: scare away anyone who moves into 221B. This stranger will leave soon too.

"Surely, there has to be a solution..."

This guy is an idiot.

"Don't get too comfortable. You'll crack before you unpack."

John turns on his heels, strides to the radio and switches it on. It’s some electro-pop tune which John abhors, yet, he will endure as he’s positive that it will annoy his neighbour more.

John can be patient; what is two hours of this when the great silence will welcome him soon?

  
  


* * *

  
  


Then, Sherlock Holmes of 221b and John Watson of 221c go crazy.

Someone must win, surely? And if they act like five year olds, who cares? There’s no one to judge.

Mrs Hudson, their long-suffering landlady of 221a - smiles knowingly, “boys will be boys”, and that’s it.

Stage One: Chalk screeching on the blackboard. John flinches at the sound of his handiwork, yet he battles on.

Stage Two: Sherlock plays the piano, wrongly and loudly. He hates every second, and he cannot stop Mycroft’s voice in his head (“You’re acting like a child, Sherlock.”)

Stage Three: John decides to take up DIY and install a new [something] now, with full force and all the noise.

He gets something done; it feels not altogether bad. Furious, John wants to destroy it immediately.

His hands are balled into fists, he shakes all-over. Fucking panic attack! It won't break, it won't break - and John isn't sure if he isn't referring to himself.

Sherlock’s senses in 221b are alert.

There’s something off in 221c, and even more so than normal.

Ridiculous.

So, his neighbour is unusually quiet out of a sudden? Nothing to alarm Sherlock Holmes, he’s all his rational being. Surely, that’s just a ploy, a trick by him, to finally drive him out of 221b.

Sherlock Holmes rises to his full height, turns his head to the windows overlooking Baker Street: this is his home now.

  
  


* * *

  
  


It could have been a never-ending story, or ended in burning Baker Street to the ground, but instead music finds its way. 

Sherlock is a pianist, and if you ask him, he would say that he's The Pianist. (He doesn't know that there's a novel and its adaptation for the screen. He's quite ignorant towards such things. There's still a lot he has to learn, and one or two things he is going to learn just now...)

As a professional he rehearses regularly. His personal favourite is Chopin. Sherlock Holmes would say that he is the only one who can play him properly.

John Watson, his new neighbour, disagrees. Loudly, he says: “You slaughter him!”

“Are you a professional musician?”

“Not really, no, but my father worked behind the stage at the opera. He dragged me to all the rehearsals as a kid. God, how I wanted to hate it. My old man and I never got along, you see, but when the music played… all was well for a minute. Music remained a sanctuary for me even when…” There was a break, a sudden stillness. The stranger clears his throat, then continues: “Anyway, this is not how you should play Chopin, believe me, mate.”

“And how should one play it, mate,” and Sherlock has never more tried to sound mock-stern.

“Don’t get me wrong: your technique is good, perfect even, but Chopin? Perfect’s all wrong for someone like Chopin. Chopin is crazy, going wild, letting go. You sound like stiff upper lip meets posh private school tutor.”

Challenge accepted.

Yet, with the rushing in of feelings, there comes an unknown feeling of liberty, of being content, of being alive.

Sherlock's fingers are dancing over the piano, not unlike Sherlock did behind closed doors in his youth. It wasn’t normal for a boy to enjoy ballet, and he had disappointed everyone again.

Now, thirty years later, Sherlock lets it all out: his anger, his frustration, his struggle, his demons, his desires.

There are flashbacks in his head, he struggles to focus on the notes, and then closes his eyes for the first time in forever.

He doesn’t need the dots anymore, probably hasn’t ever. As if a Sherlock Holmes would ever forget a piece? His mind palace is full of memories, and now they are morphing together with emotions, settling deep down into his bones.

Mummy’s disapproval, Victor’s intense gaze, the smell of the sheet music, the tick-tock of the clock.

The name-calling, the anonymous audience, the always too bright spotlight, his suit as his armour.

Redbeard used to sit next to the piano, never so much as one bark when Sherlock was playing.

Not once, Sherlock heard: “I’m proud of you.”

Who he – Sherlock Holmes – really was, has it ever mattered?

There's stunned silence in Baker Street after the last tone.

“That was…”

“Not exactly bad…”

“My thoughts exactly.”

It’s silence once more but for the first time, a comfortable one.

“I’ve never played like that…” Sherlock surprises himself by admitting it.

“It’s a pity because you’re… good.” The stranger’s voice is gruff but honest, earnest in his compliment.

The silence stretches on, and it could be the end of it, but out of a sudden, the stranger asks: “Are you a professional?”

“Indeed.”

Only a humming sound as the reply, and Sherlock hesitates before asking: “And what are you up to when not terrorizing your neighbours?”

“Ha, bloody, ha. I’m an inventor. I have been developing games… for seven years now.” There’s a pause as if the stranger was surprised by the time span himself. “You’ve heard of a Rubicon?”

“Yep.”

“Something like it, just more challenging. Rubicon is an easy task. The game I’m currently developing is one of mind games, that it produces images in the player’s mind, playing tricks, so that they aren’t sure what’s truth or fiction anymore.”

“That’s fascinating.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I’ve said so myself. Do keep up. I hate repeating myself…”

“Thank you… I guess.” Another beat of silence. “What do you look like?”

“Even if I'm flattered by your interest, I should probably tell you that I’m married to my work. “

“No, my god, no… I wasn’t… that isn’t… what I wanted is simply visualize who terrorized me for days. Put a face to a name… which brings me to the next question: what’s your name?”

“Sherlock Holmes. You?”

“John. John Watson.”

“Pleasure to meet you, in a way, Mr. Watson.”

“John, please, after all, we’re neighbours now. And even if you're probably a hundred years old, I’ll offer the first name-basis. It’s the 21st century, after all.”

“Smooth, John. Is someone eager to find out my age? Should I add my sexual preferences next? “

Sputtering, “No, as I said before, all is fine. Seriously, Sherlock, and I’m just a noisy git. Morbid curiosity as my mom used to call it. Sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“Apologies accepted. 43.”

“43?”

“My age, John.”

“Oh, okay, 45 here… You know what? It’s quite nice. This talking through walls a bit. A bit odd, mind you, but actually… good… When I’m out, I often feel as if I want to slap people. All those looks, expectations… but here? It’s different but a nice change. We can talk, and we don’t even know what the other one looks like. Quite liberating.”

“Are you still trying to convince me to tell you how I look?”

“No, Sherlock. I mean what I say: it’s a nice change. Imagine it always like that: no looks, no expectations, only a voice. Even if it’s an off-key singalong to the radio in the shower.”

“You are the one singing it wrong.”

“If you say so, Sherlock…”

“I’m the musician…”

“You’re a pianist, quite a difference, Sherlock. I haven’t said that I mind. It’s… charming”

“You’re a terrible flirt, John Watson.”

“Oh, you haven’t heard me try. Anyway: can we agree on something, Sherlock?”

“Which is…?”

“That it’s not all bad to have a neighbour?”

“And why is that?”

“Because it never gets boring… at least, when one lives next to Sherlock Holmes.”

  
tbc


	4. The Arrangement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Just to get it straight, Sherlock: You want to… keep our relationship but not as a _normal_ relationship?”  
> “It’s quite elegant, isn’t it? We would be together but still have our freedom. All the benefits but no pressure, no facade, just us… our voices.”

There is a very thin wall between 221b and 221c.

As if by fate, it has separated two sitting rooms that now almost morph back into one. One sitting room belongs to Sherlock Holmes (43), a pianist; and the other one to Dr John H. Watson (45), whatever he might be after everything. Theoretically, John's a war hero, an ex-surgeon, a widower, and he’s telling everyone that he develops a game which might take a lifetime.

There is a wall between them, but they cannot be separated.

  
  


* * *

Not only are the men different, but also their rooms are a bit mismatched from the outside perspective: one sitting room has Victorian wallpaper, a fireplace, a coffee table overflowing with papers, and a couch that is turned into a bed.

From where Sherlock Holmes is sitting in 221b, one can see that the kitchen is turned into a laboratory. Unknown to most, his freezer now contains thumbs.

Oh, and the carpet has burns, some might be from acid.

There’s a skull too. Until last night, it was the only friend – if you can call a skull a friend – of Sherlock Holmes. The skull's name is Billy, if anyone is interested in details.

However, today is a new day, because Sherlock Holmes has met – in a way – John Watson.

  
  


* * *

  
  


John Watson lives in 221c.

His sitting room is basically the flat. It’s small, plain and overall boring, but that’s John Watson for you, or so he believes.

The flat is not that cold, but John prefers to wear his favourite jumper. Most of them are beige; today's is no exception. John's predictable, or so it seems.

John has brought his tea with him to the wall. It’s stupid and reckless to lower himself to the floor, but John Watson is stubborn. Mary - Dr. John H. Watson's dead wife, a nurse - used to say that it’s one of his best qualities. There’s a flicker in John's eyes, but then he clenches his hands. Ella Thompson, his therapist, says that it's PTSD. A psychosomatic limp and a tremor in your dominant hand aren't exactly what one calls a jackpot, even less so one used to be an excellent surgeon. To use more drastic words: "It is what it is, and what it is, is shit."

* * *

  
  
  


John Watson is leaning against his wall now. The activity should have tired him, his hand should start trembling every second now.

The clock from the bedside table ticks, and nothing happens.

His cane is resting against his table. He could fetch it if he missed its presence.

For the first time in forever, John Watson's head is clear, and he feels a rush of excitement.

It's this feeling of being alive that makes John blurt out: “Last night was…” Then he stops, listens carefully, chides himself for being foolish-

“Was…?” There's a voice, unusually quiet, a bit unsure, but it's him: Sherlock Holmes.

It makes John, ex-soldier, battle on for now he wants to win a fight: “Last night was not so…”

“Bad…?”

Sherlock sounds hesitant, and John hates it with every fibre of his being. Who made you like this? He wants to ask, falling into doctor mode instantly. Instead he reins himself in: This isn’t the place or the time. Sherlock isn’t his patient, and he isn’t a doctor any more. Alas, he senses a new beginning, when he replies: “Yes, quite…one might even say, good.”

“Good, yes, quite fine actually.”

Without having seen him before, John can picture him: long fingers toying with some unknown item. He’s a pianist, he has to be tactile. Maybe it’s a soft scarf; with a voice like his he has to be sensual, doesn’t he? Or is it some baked goods he is toying into pieces now? John cannot pinpoint why exactly, but he guesses that his Sherlock has a sweet tooth.

His voice sounds foreign to him, when he says: “Sherlock: whether we like it or not, we have a kind of relationship now; an unusual one, but a relationship.”

When it’s out, John is shocked. This isn’t him, at least, not anymore. Back in the university days, he was flirting with strangers, but that’s been a lifetime ago. While Greg would high-five him and Ella would be pleased, John is alarmed.

Before he can take it all back, apologize, move out, leave the country, Sherlock speaks up: “A relationship…?”

John has to fix it, somehow, anyhow, so he babbles. “Not a  _ relationship _ relationship, but… we’re neighbours, flatmates to a degree, maybe… friends… I just thought, we could maybe… meet? You could come over or I could come to yours, and we could… talk. Just like we do now, just face to face.”

“…”

There is silence.

Why is Sherlock silent?

It’s not like him to be silent.

And no, John cannot tell why he knows this either. He simply does.

Now, it’s him to inquire hesitantly, “Sherlock?”

There is the noise of cars and buses outside. People are milling about on the pavement. Many of them are tourists, as Madame Tussauds is close by.

A dog is barking.

Would Sherlock love to have a dog? Did he have one as a young boy? There are so many questions inside John’s head.

Would John have saved Redbeard and not let him die like Mycroft had? Sherlock is thinking at the same time.

It is the curious incident of the dog in the daytime - somewhere outside in Baker Street - that changes everything.

“I like what we have, John," says Sherlock. "I have thought about what you’ve said the other night a lot, and I think that I agree with you.”

“Agree with me?” John’s voice is full of questions, but also wonder.

It’s as if he knows that it’s highly improbable that Sherlock Holmes agrees with you.

“Yes, John. It might be unusual, this arrangement of yours, but I enjoy it and I think that you enjoy it as well. Why jeopardizes the status quo? We’re both unusual men, so why do it the usual way? Meeting face to face, that’s so ordinary. What we have is special, unique, and I came to the realization that I want to keep it, want to keep talking to you.”

There is silence in 221b and 221c.

It's so quiet that they can actually hear Mrs Hudson singing along in 221a. She has turned up the radio, probably to give them some privacy.

Her taste in music is abhorrent, but there's something sweet about her pronouncing "R-E-S-P-E-C-T" as if retaking a spelling exam.

Both men are starting to laugh. Sherlock might even giggle at one point. John is wheezing, it's so...

* * *

  
  


John has to gulp down the tea before he can continue the conversation. His face hurts a bit from the unusual movement.

"You want to… keep up our relationship but not as a normal relationship?”

It's a bit like defusing a bomb or trying to evade quicksand, as John cannot predict Sherlock.

John's body is alert, his muscles tense, his mind firing and filtering information at light-speed. It's as if someone isn't simply offering him a partnership, but saying, "Welcome back" because at last, he's alive.

“Yes, John, exactly.” Sherlock sounds excited. As if John has presented him a puzzle, a riddle. Which is stupid as John's plain and boring, unable to construct one proper mystery for his computer game.

"Huh...”

“It’s quite elegant, isn’t it? We would be together but still have our freedom. All the benefits but no pressure, no facade, just us… our voices.”

  
tbc  
  



	5. Experimental Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A morning wank, a cheese incident at Tesco and a (non)date - a normal Monday in Baker Street.

It’s another Monday when the experiment starts, as Sherlock calls the test phase: John Watson and Sherlock Holmes being together, but not together. There surely has to be a better term, but for now, Sherlock is content with The Arrangement. It’s been exactly two weeks since he moved into 221b. 

How much his life has changed already: his concert is on the horizon, but he can push his looming anxiety away. He feels no need to rush over to his piano to practice for hours – astonishing!

* * *

  
  


On said Monday Sherlock wakes up early, but surprisingly well-rested. Somehow, he has found his way into his bed instead of the sofa, and for a second, he is irritated but then the memory comes back: John! He has ordered him to sleep in a real bed for once and oddly, Sherlock has followed his command.

Dr John H. Watson, ex-military, his new neighbour.

Instead of irritated, Sherlock is intrigued. A puzzle, and he’s even upright yet.

He could ponder about the enigma next door, yet, he wants to prolong the experience.

So, Sherlock relishes in the soft covers, tries out the difference between his satin pyjamas and bare skin, how his head rests in different body positions on his cushion. He inspects his long fingers, cards his hand through his curls, follows the treasure trail to its destination.

Resting his hand around his prick, he hesitates. It has hardened considerably, a strange but not altogether bad feeling, and yet, he isn’t sure if he should continue this. Then he scolds himself: this. As if he’s a teenage boy and not a middle-aged man. While he aches for it, he feels trapped too, as he is an insecure man hidden behind an inscrutable mask.

Or, at least, he had been until last night. Which leads to the underlying reason for stopping this – damn it, self-pleasure – John.

Would John hear him?

Would John hear that he has his hands, his long pianist fingers, down his pants, and is frigging himself?

Would he hear him moan, whimper, cry out for it, not for him obviously, but for a touch?

Sherlock bites down hard onto his other hand to not let any sound slip out, when he comes.

* * *

Sherlock's breakfast routine is broken too. He gulps down the cold tea with too much sugar, but then he eyes the scones that Mrs Hudson brought up yesterday. In the end, he even eats an apple. It is disgusting how his transport betrays him. What’s up next: muesli?

He huffs out in annoyance, and yet he finds himself standing next to the kettle. When he searches for milk and discovers that it went off, he closes the fridge’s door with full force. He makes a mental note to ask Mrs Hudson to pop into the Tesco, because before he goes shopping himself, England would fall!

England is falling – unknown to its population – twenty minutes later when Sherlock Holmes is roaming the aisles. Sherlock has no particular knowledge about necessary ingredients but he’s a genius, he can observe and deduce.

While comparing different types of cheese – at the growing alarm of the clerks – he convinces himself that this is simply another experiment. An experiment that leads to him having all sorts of cheese in his bag as the shop apparently has a non-return police, or something – Sherlock has deleted the details as well as the outrage of the other customers immediately.

* * *

When Sherlock returns from the Tesco fiasco to 221b, Mrs Hudson spots him. That woman is all too observant, when she would leave Baker Street, England would fall for real. She helps him bring everything into his kitchen: all seventeen steps with three bags full of cheese.

Sherlock cannot react fast enough; she opens the fridge and comes face to face with a bag of thumbs. Small mercies, she doesn’t faint or, worse, investigates the content of the freezer as it contains a head.

“What is all this about, young man?” She makes a flourish gesture with her arm and Sherlock assumes that she has had dancing training too.

“I got bored.”

Instantly, she is laughing so loud that surely John will hear it.

“Oh, Sherlock”, and then it’s laughing again.

Her face gets all wrinkly, the resemblance with a mother increasing. He should huff and scoff, and as he has done it before, slam doors. Mycroft can tell tales, and oh, how he relishes in it. Now, Sherlock joins in, carefree.

“Then it’s decided: Fondue tonight.” His look tells her to reconsider – it’s disgusting, the wobbling cheese, the texture all wrong, and then the bread dipping in, sometimes leaving crumbs behind – and she suggests, “Pizza?”, to switch over to, “Mac & Cheese. Last chance, young man, after all…”

Mrs Hudson makes the gesture with her hand, Sherlock estimates that she’s danced irregularly for at least 50 years. There might be some of the exotic variety involved.

“I see… Pasta it is then.” Sherlock drops a bag of noodles on the kitchen counter, “They were 20% off, and John likes Macaroni, reminds him of his childhood.”

Her eyes are too soft, but he lets it uncomment for now. She promises to cook a nice meal for them all in her kitchen and bring it up later.

Sherlock zooms out already, rummaging in his flat in search of a good bottle of wine. Mrs Hudson certainly deserves one for putting up with them.

* * *

  
  


“Jesus, Sherlock, you tasted the cheese with your tongue?”

They have found their places again, as close to the wall separating them as possible.

Sherlock had dragged his chair there during the afternoon. Then, overlooking it, decided on a whim to rearrange part of the living room too. Now, two chairs were placed next to the wall, the table in between, and the rug below. The new place for the lamp was actually an improvement because before it had stood next to the two windows.

The painting with the pirate ship – and Sherlock had named it Gloria Scott in his mind, itching to share the tale with John soon – is now towering over them all. When it now flipped, Sherlock wasn’t terrified but excited: John was here, calling to him.

Sherlock had surprised himself with inhaling the homemade meal. It smelt delicious and John had giggled when he had heard Sherlock’s stomach rumble. He should have lashed out, or ignored his transport, but instead he had dug into the past with relish. It was not altogether bad to eat with John as his company. It was actually quite pleasant, and Sherlock sensed a sudden warmth which could not be explained totally by digestion.

It made him babble – another first – about his day. While skipping over his morning activities in bed, he transformed his shopping trip into an adventure. Somehow, he detected that John loves sensational literature. There was no harm done by turning himself into a hero, surely.

His coat had flattered a bit more in the wind, his curls had been perfectly coiffed, and his blue scarf had hugged his neck just so.

He had deduced the exact number of dogs the woman owned on the street corner (three) and he had spotted that the man waiting at the crossing had recently walked out of his wife, had a male lover who happened to be the children’s teacher, and he was allergic to pollen. Him having a twin brother might have been a lark, but Sherlock had a sudden need to impress John.

And this is how they ended up with the incident with the cheese.

Never normal, never boring John, reacted unexpectedly again: “For a self-declared genius, you’re dense: health and safety? Ring any bells?”

“Should I remind you, Dr Watson, how taste is important, and how many taste buds and nerve ends are in the human tongue?” Sherlock should be put off, but he is intrigued, and a bit turned on. Just a bit, mind you, but his prick is a foolish organ since meeting John and apparently believes that it would get some action tonight again.

“Not a doctor anymore, Sherlock. And definitely not the point. You are lucky that they only demanded that you buy all the contained cheese…”

It takes Sherlock an embarrassing long time to answer, partly because he’s embarrassed. Partly, because his mind supplies him with pictures of Doctor John examining him, oh, and yes, one could experiment with tastes and touch and, oh, John is speaking again.

“That’s all they did, didn’t they?”

His answer is some huff, and it sounds not as affronted as he should be.

“Huh, Sherlock? I cannot hear you.”

A fierce glance down to his prick, back to fixing the wall and imagining John sitting in a similar position – without a hard-on, probably – and mastering his poshest voice, when he replies at last: “I might be prohibited to ever set foot into this Tesco ever again.”

“You utter nutter.”

“Her face was as white as a camembert.”

It isn’t wheezing with laughter, it is howling. And feeling alive, whatever game they’re playing, it is so on.

  
tbc  
  



	6. Queer Solidarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly Hooper visits Baker Street and invites Sherlock to drink coffee with him. ("You can tell me all about the neighbour you want to shag. Call it queer solidarity.") Meanwhile, John Watson is alarmed when his hero - from his adventure games he's been programming for years - has suddenly a partner. ("Well, fuck me-")

John sort of sleepwalked into this gaming business. Which is an accurate description as he was barely functioning at that time, constantly haunted by his nightmares of Mary's death.

It turns out that he has a knack for creating realistic conquests. Apparently, it pays off to be an ex-doctor and an ex-soldier: after all, you can name all the bones of the human body while breaking them.

John's landscape design is constantly praised, so vivid and full of details. Presumably, his bosses have skipped the part on his CV that listed his time in Afghanistan. John cannot blame them, he prefers to delete it too.

Alas, life doesn’t have the reset option. Therefore, John continues to blend as much of his nightmares into his games as he can stomach, and then pours out a drink to the veterans when he receives the pay-check.

Programming ego shooter games set in an active war zone might not have been Ella’s intention when suggesting writing down his memories, but who cares? John’s been past that point eons ago. To put it blunt: he doesn’t give a fuck.

Yes, his fictional characters tend to use strong, foul language. The grimness of war, there’s no polite way to say: “prepare to die”.

Trust John, he’s been there. Or he still is, and never left, who knows.

* * *

  
  


“Do you want coffee?”

“I’ve met someone.”

Two people rushing out words, and then a pause, awkward. They’re best friends, two odd sods, she visits him in Baker Street announced.

Sherlock presses his mouth shut, curses inwardly, then conceals his uneasiness with a huff and drapes his dressing gown dramatically over himself. It’s not his shield, or so he tells himself.

Molly blushes as she so often does. Then she fidgets with her fingers, typical. Up next will straighten up her sweater, or so Sherlock predicts.

He is wrong: with a smile, Molly turns to him fully and says, “That’s nice.” No reaction from him, so she ponders on, “isn’t it?”

Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes met in school. Naturally, she got a terrible crush on him and he had to let her down.

“Romantic entanglements, while fulfilling for some people – “, oh, the speech had been well-practiced in front of the mirror for days. Surprisingly, it hadn’t been the outcome.

“Sherlock, I’m gay.” Some people were quite contradictory, weren’t they? Quiet, unassuming Molly Hooper had surprised him then, back in the 20th century.

History is repeating itself, she surprises him once more: “Coffee, Sherlock? And you can tell me all about your neighbour you’d like to shag. Call it queer solidarity.”

In 221b, on June the 1st, Sherlock does something with his eyes, blinking, probably.

She saunters to the door – she! – and opens it. Molly smiles, no, smirks.

* * *

  
  


John Watson isn’t an idiot.

He knows that all stories start with either a man going on a journey or a man coming to town. As a kid he was a fan of Tolkien’s story, and he carried a paperback version of “The Hobbit” all the way to the desert.

Yet, he only incorporated a mentor figure into his adventure games so far. One of his bosses couldn’t stop demanding, “Stop painting the solitude of the sand, we know it by now. It’s getting boring when there’s a no-man land. Where are the people?”

John’s first instinct was to reply, “They’re dead”. It would have been the truth, but this was a fantasy. Therefore, he turned Major Sholto into the heroic mentor. For John, he still remained the steadfast soldier, and here, he could recreate James how he looked without the scars.

“Looks good,” his boss stated, pleased. “Kind of hot.”

Civilians, John thought. He had nodded or something, and before heading home to his bedsit he had bought James’ favourite whisky. It had burnt in his throat when Captain Watson gulped it down later, yet he battled on.

That night John had wailed like an animal or cried like a baby. He had scrubbed his body until the skin was red and then further still when he woke up, disgusted by the semen on him.

John had moved out of his bedsit into a cheap hotel until he ran into Mrs Hudson who had saved him.

Since then, whenever John needed to create another feature with the Major in it, he emptied his apartment of booze before. Mrs Hudson knew without being told that it was a dangerous night. Around ten she would knock on his door and invite him to watch telly with her. There was always some home cooked meal too. The smell and taste brought John always back to the present.

Baker Street was his sanctuary, his home.

It alarms John Watson when out-of-nowhere, on June the 1st, his hero has a partner.

"Well, fuck me" - these are surely not Dr. John H. Watson words (probably).

  
  


* * *

  
  


Molly Hooper is younger than Sherlock.

She’s turning 40 next year. She isn’t bothered by it. “It’s been harder when the big 3 arrived,” she used to say. Now, at 39, she doesn’t give a fuck.

She has picked up a stronger language too, alongside a new cat. His name’s Toby.

“We cannot kick out all habits with a bucket,” or at least not all. Her long, brown hair got a pixie cut when she turned 31, and this stayed.

Just like her girlfriend, soon-to-be wife, who Sherlock only knows as “Hopkins”. It cannot be her real name, but who knows? (On their wedding day, he will learn that it's Stella.)

Sherlock is not snooping – much – and Molly is a secretive bunch – mostly – alas, they’re best friends for ages, so they meet for coffee on a regular basis. They promise to not talk about private – intimate – matters, and gossip until their drinks are gone cold.

When meeting with Molly, Sherlock opts for black coffee with two sugars. Long experience has taught him that it holds the warmth the longest, also it’s cheap. He had to bin it only twice – imagine, it had to be some fancy Frappuccino!

The juicy bit might be worth it all, but Sherlock won’t risk it.

The juicy bits are his kick (mark down, it’s kick, not kink, there’s a difference!), they kickstart his personal routine. Oh, the rush!

First, there is the tingling in his fingers, or maybe it’s his brain who caught on first? Who cares at this point, Sherlock surely does not? His priority is rushing home as quickly as humanly possible.

Once he overpaid a cabbie so urgent were his matters. He needed to be behind closed doors, to lock out the world, to only focus on himself and his ideas.

Pure bliss.

And Molly’s tales from the pedestrian world of ordinary humans provided it for him, over and over again.

His fingers, so long, itched to finally touch the piano. They ached to voice out the whispers of the most private wishes, to illuminate the desires, to draw out the temptation until its glorious climax.

Oh, people can be so terribly naughty. And they never expected sweet, unassuming Molly Hooper to detect all their secrets.

“Tell me about…,” she says, smiling, and they deliver.

They love her and her little café. They coo over the photographs of her cat on the wall. They all want to have a girlfriend like Molly Hooper has, who is her co-owner.

“It’s queer solidarity,” she says. Maybe it had been her mysterious girlfriend, “Hopkins” instead but who cares at this point?

They opened the café together at their fifth anniversary. “Speedy” was replaced by “H. M. H.” Thank God for the hipsters, or the queer crowd who are H. M. H.’s main clientele, and Sherlock’s personal fever dream.

It’s better than a wank session – yes, including the purple dildo that hit Sherlock’s prostate just so – because it’s a piece of reality.

Even while it’s filtered by Molly – customers' privacy etc. – it has a trace of truth in it, which Sherlock turns into a symphony of being alive.

Because this is it, the very essence of his existence, his heart and soul: composing.

For those precious seconds, minutes, hours, Sherlock Holmes feels alive and for a fracture of note he is part of it all: the subculture of his beloved London, its gay heart.

  
  


tbc


	7. My cup of coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Sherlock are continuing their talk about John in H. M. H. (“I don’t want to shag him – as you so inadequately put – I’m in love with him.”), while John is opening up about a strange meeting in therapy with Ella (“What’s her name?” - “Sherlock. His name is Sherlock.”).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday to me & a gift for you ^^
> 
> An all-new chapter of the fic that I originally wanted to call, "If these walls could talk" - only then I thought that it's queer enough already.
> 
> What do you think?

“So, Sherlock, spill.” Molly is determined.

Their hot beverages are steaming in their mugs. This time Molly opted for a splash of milk; Sherlock observes. He knows that he’s stalling. 

They arrived at H. M. H. twelve minutes ago, and Sherlock even ordered a slice of cheesecake. It’s only a half-lie that he hasn’t eaten all day. Anyone except Molly, Mycroft and Mrs Hudson would believe it. And John: they had shared breakfast this morning.

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m not!”

“You totally are. Don’t deny it. Remember: best friend?”

Molly’s smile would mirror his, when Sherlock would smile, which he doesn’t.

“It’s a good look on you. What brought it on?” 

Damn, Molly is not altogether bad in deductions. Their long friendship voting in her favour too. One has to be good at reading people when owning a café, Sherlock supposes.

M. H. is hush-hush because some people believe that their baristas are actual mind-readers. They’re simply well-trained, and a bootcamp by Mr Sherlock Holmes is an eyeopener in the human mind. Observation is the key to good customer service; it shouldn’t be such a revolutionary concept.

Today, Sally Donovan is the one in charge. Sherlock remembers the black woman well: she is quick with her hand as well as her mouth. There had been a not-too-subtle remark about her latest conquest when they had placed their order, and Sherlock had actually felt bad. It had been an excellent example for: observe, deduce and conclude – but not share your knowledge with everyone. Sure, some people take it better to comment on their weight than to give a bad blowjob last night, but there’s a chance that they won’t.

Sherlock realises he’s in deep when the memories are morphing into a silhouette of him giving a man a blowjob.

“No one.” Instantly, Sherlock realizes his error, tries to back-paddle, “I mean, nothing. All is normal.”

“John is the new normal then?”

Sherlock puffs, it’s annoying. Also, Molly isn’t totally wrong. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, he should want to talk about him, shouldn’t he? Molly has proved her trust over and over. She surely knows more about this dating and potential relationship business than he. His rushing thoughts come to an abrupt halt: relationship?

Alarmed, he blurts out: “Lovely music you have here, Chopin, isn’t it?”

Molly, loyal Molly, plays along, “Yes, it is. A talented man recorded this session for us. I heard that he even does his own arrangements. Don’t ask me for details – my best friend is the expert in music – but you can talk with him about it, if you’re curious.”

She stops, points at his plate, “He might have a minute to spare. After all, he’s showing no interest in eating his cheesecake." She picks up his mug for a second, “and his coffee needs a refill.” A beat of a second, “You could buy him a cup, I hope that his pick-up lines have improved since school days, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”

Her eyes are alight with mischief, and Sherlock all-too-well remembers that this is Molly Hooper too: headstrong, determined, infuriating.

She takes the last sip from her coffee; her mug is empty now too. “Not sure however if that’s incest.” Before Sherlock can remark, she ends “as you’re the artist as you well know.”

Molly gets up, indicating that she will get them both a refill. Turning around, she stage-whispers, “So maybe, Sherlock, ask John out instead.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


While Molly is away – taking extra-long, but that could be because of a snogging session with her girlfriend – Sherlock refuses to think about John. 

Instead, Sherlock spaces out and listens to the music playing in H. M. H.

There are playlists for coffee shops, and some people stream them at home too. Most of it are no original pieces, just the remixed jingle and the mundane classic dragged so long that the ears should bleed. Of course, there are the rare cafés that have live-music, a pianist sitting in a corner and sometimes he’s even paid a minimum wage.

Poor students and starving artists are an everyday occurrence in a city like London, and Sherlock would never believe that this fate awaited him, alas fate had other ideas. There was a trust fund but Mycroft, the fat bastard, was hovering about it like an evil dragon over his hoard. The rules for getting access were positively medieval.

No, Sherlock Holmes refused to be a slave to his brother. It was annoying enough that he had to live with him for some time, and oh, the disdain for his composing, his constant meddling, his never-ending conceit. Therefore, Sherlock had turned to Molly and started his career as a consulting pianist.

Consulting pianist, as far as Sherlock Holmes knows, is a singular position. He is the only one in the world. He invented his job. 

He loves it, as it pays quite well. For Molly, he’s doing it for free. She retributed it in kindness and baked goods, oh, and the coffee. When he’s working, he stays up long and he isn’t in his twenties anymore. However, his other clients? Lofty pay checks.

Sherlock doesn’t feel guilty: London is expensive and 221b Baker Street is a prime spot, and his wardrobe needed an update.

Sebastian Wilkes, stupid Sebastian, would probably argue that everyone can play some tunes on the piano and call it art. That something so ordinary like a coffee shop doesn’t need something hand-crafted but that’s why he’s an idiot. Coffee shops cater to the illusion of individuality, unlike cafés, you can create your own drink. It’s an overpriced show, and probably the customers recognize it, but that’s the 21st century for you.

When you want to upload the newest photo of your vegan-white-flat-extra shot of whatever flavour is woke nowadays-coffee on social media, you crave that there would be a soundtrack to your all-perfect-filtered-life. To not only add the blandest tags and hope to get validation by likes, and oh-it’s-so-authentic, but yes, the La La Land Feeling. (Molly had told him that Glee was out, that was her only remark when he had presented her his plans. QED: Best friend.)

You believe that baristas are artists? Then Sherlock Holmes is an artist too.

Making art with foam, however? Sherlock prefers a skull over a flower. Surprisingly, he was the only one managing it, while the baristas barely managed _Für Elise_. ((And his ears were close to bleeding then, even Anderson sounded like Lang Lang suddenly.)

Baking and coffee making is pure science, and Sherlock would have opted for chemistry if music hadn’t been his first love. (Or pirate, and John would have been there too, and they had a dog called Redbeard.)

It’s Molly’s from far away, cautious, “Sherlock…,” echoing a lifetime of conversations that makes him admit: “I don’t want to shag him – as you so inadequately put – I’m in love with him.”

* * *

“I’ve met someone.”

“Oh, John, that’s lovely.”

Ella is a professional, but John knows her well enough that she's truly pleased. 

It’s Wednesday and he arrived on time for their meeting. That was probably a telling sign that something happened. John hopes that she hasn’t dialled the number of the nearby psychiatric clinic. If so, John cannot blame her: Dr Ella Thompson has been his therapist from the beginning.

John makes a face that he hopes can be interpreted as a smile.

“What’s her name?”

“Sherlock. His name is Sherlock.” Her face is carefully blank, but John knows that he has caught her unaware. “Yes, it's an unusual name, but he's an unusual man. It fits…”

John is positive that the unsaid, “we fit” is loud and clear. She’s writing something down, probably that bit about accepting his bisexuality at last. 

Ella isn’t chiding him about reading his writing upside-down. He used to have the habit at the beginning. Back then, he was desperate to make sense of everything. 

Easier, darker days.

“How did you two met?”

“We didn’t.” Oh, and it's childish glee to see her frowning.

Her quirked eyebrow, “Do tell, Dr Watson”, plain as day.

“We’re neighbours, he’s the new tenant at 221b Baker Street.”

“And…”

“That’s it.”

“Dr Watson- John- if you don’t want to tell about him” – she checks her notes, she definitely wrote something down – “then I won’t pry. However, I don’t need to tell you about what a breakthrough that could be. It could be your turning point. And that you mentioned Sherlock today – for me, it seems like you want to share this with me.”

She fixes him with a patient smile. “So, if you want to tell me all about Sherlock. I’m here to listen, after all, you pay me for it.”

And then there’s the spark again, the underlying reason why he picked her as his therapist: there’s more to her than meets the eye.

It’s banter, good fun. She’s found a way to insert cracks in his armour. In another universe, they could have become friends. Gossiping about their patients, anonymously of course, but imitating their habits pitch perfect. Ella, in particular, has the air of an actress sometimes.

“Okay…” Distinctly, he’s in soldier-mode. “As you know, the wall is thin. And what should I say: one can hear everything.”

“ _Everything_.”

He’s blushing, it rattles him. It’s not like that, is it? Or, it wasn’t like that. He hasn’t, Sherlock hasn’t, they both aren’t like that. John feels himself sweating. It alarms him.

“I’m not gay. We’re neighbours. We get on, we talk for hours. He’s insane and probably mad; he’s a pianist, you know. But it’s not like that.”

Ella’s humming, and her next line will be, “it’s all fine, John” and it makes him angry.

Why does everything have a double meaning all of a sudden? Why can’t they simply be friends, two people bound together? Probably, John should say that Sherlock isn’t like that. He could repeat Sherlock’s “flattered by his interest” phrase, couldn’t he?

Yet, John hesitates. Maybe Ella had been right; this is a turning point, not only because of mentioning Sherlock, but also of what they are doing about their meeting. 

After all, there’s more to do when one wants to break down a wall. 

“I like him, you see. He’s a genius, and when he plays… I have never heard something like him. But he’s also such a complicated man. He drives me up the walls, he infuriates me. Who gets banned by Tesco? He deleted the solar system – and relearned it because I teased him about it. Mrs Hudson said that he wanted macaroni made out of the armada of cheese because he deduced my childhood food. Oh, yes, deduction. Another thing that this lunatic believes to be real. And you know what? I believe it might be. Before meeting him, I would say it’s straight out of fiction, but you cannot fake all that. No, he’s a nutter but he’s mine. He’s real.”

“And how do you feel about all that?”

Smart woman.

“Frankly, I don’t know.“

  
  
  


tbc

**Author's Note:**

> Endless thanks to my two lovely betas, wildishmazz & elldotsee.  
> Kudos are love. Comments are very welcome.


End file.
